


You Didn't Think You'd Feel This Way

by DetectiveJoan



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon Compliant, Consensual Kink, F/M, Post-Relationship, Relationship Study, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveJoan/pseuds/DetectiveJoan
Summary: Owen Green is, objectively, too fucking beautiful.





	You Didn't Think You'd Feel This Way

**Author's Note:**

> Title from everyone's favorite Richard Siken poem, "[Planet of Love](http://detectivejoan.tumblr.com/post/126564334944/meiringens-planet-of-love-richard-siken)"

Owen Green is, objectively, too fucking beautiful, and having to act at least semi-professional while looking at him for extended periods of time makes Joan want to snap pencils in two.

It’s unfair — not that she’s being regularly subjected to this torture, because frankly it’s a small punishment considering her crimes — but that any person can be this attractive, especially without even trying.

 _And,_ she wants to rave to someone angrily, perhaps while gesticulating uncharacteristically, _it’s not like he’s even using any of his God-given beauty_ for  _anything_. Aside from the times when she accidentally alludes to their former relationship and he does something with his big, sad, gorgeous, brown eyes that makes her stomach flip.

She wants to scream. She wants to kiss him. And when Sam makes a disgusted face and says, “I don’t know what you ever saw in him,” Joan wants to point emphatically at Owen’s silken hair and swoon-worthy grin and fucking perfectly-dimpled cheeks.

There’s other stuff, too, stuff she can’t see anymore but also can’t stop remembering. How breathtaking Owen had always looked with bruises from her hand around his throat and tears welling up in his eyes. The willing vulnerability on his face when Joan would curl her fingers in the knot of his tie and calmly drag him to his knees in front of her. The pretty way he used to squirm when she pulled him right to the edge of orgasm and then stopped, left him all trussed up to the bed or chair or closet door.

(She still has the audio recordings in a taped-shut box somewhere.)

Not that their relationship had been exclusively or even primarily sexual in nature. Owen used to paint her toenails while they watched trashy reality TV on weeknights, and he used to surreptitiously leave chocolates on her desk when he knew she was having a rough day, and he used to let her be the big spoon when they cuddled even though she was a good six inches shorter than he was.

She had found a woman’s wedding ring in the desk in his home office once, and immediately turned to him with raised eyebrows.

“My grandmother’s,” he had explained. “The perks of being an only child include inheriting a lot of family heirlooms.”

Joan had wanted to let it go, but there was suddenly something like an existential crisis building in her chest.

“Should we…?” she’d asked, with no idea what the actual question was.

“No,” Owen had answered firmly, closing the ring box and putting it back in the drawer.

They’d loved each other, in a way. Best friends with benefits, he’d called them once. They hadn’t ever been in love, not properly, not in the way that sparked daydreams about marriage and joint homeownership and 2.5 kids. Not in the way that necessitated meeting the family.

 _Not in the way that might have protected Mark,_  Joan sometimes thinks sardonically when Agent Green walks into her office, and she has to suppress the urge to throw something.


End file.
